


After the War, We Must Return Home

by ReduxCath



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReduxCath/pseuds/ReduxCath
Summary: Lord El-Melloi was sent to Fuyuki's Singularity to finish a job....Despite his best efforts, he really did finish it.
Relationships: Iskandar | Rider/Waver Velvet
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	After the War, We Must Return Home

**Author's Note:**

> in honor of the Fate Zero Accel Event Rerun

Lord El-Melloi II opened the door to his study, entered, and closed it shut.

The man let his shoulders slump, exhaled slowly, feeling the echoes of trans-temporal displacement run through his veins—but stopped the breath halfway as it was exiting from his throat. Coughing, he picked himself back up and rallied his energy as he made his way to his desk, sat down, and pulled out his quill and a piece of parchment.

Not yet.

He could not rest, just yet.

Summoning the persona of the stoic professor, of the proud 12th ranked administrator of the Clocktower, Lord El-Melloi II set about writing a report to his superiors. He focused on the soft scratching sound of the quill against the paper, on the ever-present _tic-toc_ of the grandfather clock, so as to distract himself as much as possible from the words he was writing.

He would not allow a single drop of sentimentality to color his words, to enliven the description of traveling to an anomalous pocket of the timeline in Fuyuki, Japan and reliving the terror and wonder of the Holy Grail War that got him his Name. He would be the proud and scholarly man that they all expected him to be—

\-- _after all, the death of his predecessor rested on his shoulders, so it was the least he could do._

Right?

The light of the moon was strong tonight. It slashed through the air and colored the ink a silvery-metallic color that further made him feel sour. But it was good that it was so. It was good that he would feel such a bland emotion when writing about the Rider-Class servant that interfered multiple times during his dispatchment. He summoned the image of his predecessor in his mind, made him bend over and inspect his work. El-Melloi could almost see him out of the corner of his eye, the blue-eyed mercurial menace who had made his early days of magecraft study everything short of a living hell.

His quill faltered as he began to write about his encounter with Rider— _that_ encounter.

‘ _Are you truly so foolish, boy? The past is the past.’_ Kayneth said as he peered mercilessly over his shoulder. El-Melloi—no, Waver Velvet (if he was going to pretend Kayneth was next to him, he’d have to be proper and not use the title, at least) gripped his quill and set it aside to avoid any spills that would force him to start the page over. Head in his hands, he simply let Kayneth ‘keep speaking to him’. _‘You know what happened after. You know that he acknowledged you—cheater and scoundrel that you are.’_

“When he said he didn’t like me, I wanted to vomit.” He began to talk out loud, to the empty room, because it helped. Because it forced him to stop holding his head in his hands, and lean forward and sigh—a much better pose. Something that would let the pain of the encounter roll of his back.

_‘But he acknowledged you later.’_

“But he still—”

_‘He is not your husband, boy.’_ Kayneth said as Waver’s eyes travelled to a yet-unopened letter that very obviously contained news of a former student’s upcoming wedding. The garish white envelope, the overly-pompous signature that only two people madly in the throes of love would ever think to write, it drew his eyes like a moth’s path to a flame. But Kayneth did not care. _‘Even if you had gone through with the '_ stupendous' _plan to propose to the King of Conquerors, it would not have worked out in the end. You would not have been able to share that happiness.’_

An idea fantasized under the covers, mulled over breakfasts, played with during moments of privacy in front of the television, with Iskandar's broad back blocking his view of the man's strategy game. Simply put, it had been the hope of a young man far too in over his head, far too in love with a grand figure with still-grander dreams.

Waver imagined himself glaring up at his former teacher and opponent, giving him a look scathing and seething enough to pay him back for all the suffering he made him go through. But Waver was a man now, a full-fledged mage with average circuits, and he knew exactly the type of configuration his face muscles were set in.

Not at all intimidating. “We could’ve won. If I had just predicted—”

_‘—things better?’_

For a moment, Kayneth was giving him an expression that he had never seen before. Something that one would assume were pity on any other person—

But that was not Kayneth El-Melloi Archibald. So Waver made him change his face into something more suited to the person he had been when alive. Something scathing, something rotten and full of pompous, undeserved pride. He made him laugh like a conniving madman, and Waver would’ve felt righteous indignation _if he weren’t completely aware that this was all in his head._

And so, Kayneth played his part, and sneered. _‘You were a_ boy _when you jumped ass-first into the world of real magecraft. There’s no way you could have won!!’_

…Waver felt himself deflate. “I know…”

_‘And that Rider of yours, a waste of a chance. To think the King of Conquerors would have to spend his time, instead of strategizing and warmaking, looking after a boy and building up his confi—’_

That was too much.

Kayneth disappeared with half a thought, and Lord El-Melloi shook his head.

He had a report to write.

…No more waves of emotion bothered him.

Not even when he wrote the end of the adventure, and made sure the page containing his battle with Iskandar was properly dry.

He wrapped the report in its proper parcel and sent it off before standing and leaving the room.

His mansion was quiet. And thankfully, no one bothered him as he went into his private chamber.

….Waver Velvet gently sat at the edge of his bed, and let it hit him.

The after-effects.

The young man and woman who worked with Chaldea often performed rayshifts to different points in spacetime to resolve singularities. Based on the short bits of information that Chaldea had allowed him to read, the younger the body, the easier such activity became--especially when repeated. But he himself was no longer the young, firm-eyed youth who had performed a summoning ritual with chicken blood in an unassuming backyard.

He was a man all his own.

And his muscles spasmed as the drugs that the Clockwork attendant had given him earlier finally wore off completely.

He felt it, deep in his core, the torturous groan of every cell as they fought to reestablish the position of their matrixes alongside the presence of his spirit. Closing his eyes, he saw scenes flash in his mind as clearly as they had been when he had witnessed them:

The gloating face of the Golden King of Heroes.

The horrified red eyes of a woman as her Knight fought to defend her against a stranger with a blood-red cloak.

The crackling thunder of the Mighty Iskandar as he swung his blade down in time with the hooves of Bucephalus.

The tremble that roared through his entire body as the Grail spit out the result of the Servants it had absorbed.

The face of his hero-king, frowning at him.

And that same face, smiling, laughing, with the wild craze of battle in his eyes.

His heart raced as he remembered the glorious song of blood that pumped through his ears as he fought his greatest rival on equal footing, as he dug deep into himself and pulled out the power of Zhuge Liang…

_And won_.

….and the symptoms began to quiet down as his mind showed him a young, scared boy with determined eyes, extending his hand. As those eyes snapped wide open and filled with colors for a single instance as he raised his existence beyond the mere echo of personality that he should have been, as he became a Servant all his own…

… _that_ Waver will fight alongside Chaldea’s Masters. _That_ young man will laugh and fight with great heroes of myth and history, will dine with authors and kings and philosophers, will have theological discussions with religious figures, and will jump into the bloody fray with His King by his side.

_That young man will forever be happy._

…But this Waver Velvet was still alive.

He breathed heavy, body covered in sweat, eyes stinging, and curled up into himself, shuddering as if it were cold. _He_ still had a job to do here. And he would, of course, do it. It would not do for the retainer of the Great Iskandar to behave in any embarrassing manner. What if the youth of the day saw him and spoke badly of him? They would be speaking badly of His King by proxy. No, that would not do…

…But all the luncheons and discussions and interesting people in the world, all those things didn’t really matter.

_If I could only be with you…_

An echo of a memory, in his mind.

The touch of a thick, roughened nail as it flicked his forehead.

Waver ignored his body, his stinging eyes, his tight throat, and focused on his forehead. He replayed the scene over and over in his head, fighting to recapture that moment in its purest form. Fighting to recapture the feeling of seeing such an approving smile on the face of a man who was so, so much smarter than he ever let on (for it was proven battle strategy, wasn’t it? One would be a fool to present all their wit at one time).

Waver rubbed at his forehead gently, imagining the spot where Iskandar had touched him, and wondered if the rule about sharing straws applied here as well.

_You really are my equal._

_….._

_….._ Inside the manner of El-Melloi, Lord of the Clocktower, slept a solitary man above the covers of his bed, dreaming of the waves of a shore forever spared desecration. If one were to look inside his window, what would they see?

Would they see the lonely man in the strange position, curled up, as though a child in the body of a mage?

Or would they see someone hiding that lithe frame behind their own—a gargantuan figure leaning on its side, staring dutifully at the sleeping man, with its arm over his flank and its back to the window?

…But there was no one who would dare spy on the house of the sole survivor of the 4th Holy Grail War.

Not tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a scary thing  
> falling in love with someone who fights for your sake  
> in a place where you can't follow


End file.
